


Just Sew Stories

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, Narnia Fic Exchange Treat, Other Gifts From Father Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 05:35:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20559086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: Among the gifts from Father Christmas, one was frequently forgotten by the stories. But some gifts keep on giving, regardless of magic.





	Just Sew Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WingedFlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedFlight/gifts).

If Mrs. Beaver spared a thought for the gift waiting for her back home, it was of gratitude. Father Christmas was as wise and thoughtful as all the stories said. (And he didn’t bring any knives or cudgels or anything foolish for Mr. Beaver, which was an even better gift. She had seen her mate eyeing King Peter’s sword with furtive admiration. Clever paws and webbed feet were not made for armed combat, she always said. Well, she didn’t _used to_ say that, because there had never been any need, but she made a point of saying so now — just often enough so a certain someone would get the point and stop pestering the dwarf smiths at the armory.)

In any case, the sewing machine was the furthest thing from her mind during the long trek east, and then during the awful battle, and then during the glorious days that followed when the children were crowned and the castle reopened.

It wasn’t until spring had heightened into summer that the Beavers returned to their dam.

Mr. Beaver immediately set to fussing about water levels and embankments, so Mrs. Beaver settled down to air things out and do the mending... and that was when she first got a good look at her Christmas present.

It was all sleek iron and elegant curves, fashioned in the shape of water reeds, with sprays of cattails woven into the graceful legs and water lilies blooming in wrought curls. “Dear me,” said Mrs. Beaver, “it almost seems a shame to use it for the mending. What this needs is some fancy cloth and fancy occasion.“

Mr. Beaver, a captive audience over dinner, threw his paws in the air when she repeated the thought. “It’s a shame we don’t know any blooming royalty, then, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Beaver slapped her tail against the floor. “Oh! Dear me, why didn’t I think of that? I’ll send word to Cair Paravel straightaway to see if they have need of any curtains or linens or...”

“Love,” said Mr. Beaver, folding her nervous paws in his, “I think the castle staff has them well looked after. What your Christmas gift needs is to make a gift of its own. Why, did you see all those fancy robes? I bet Lucy — Queen Lucy, I mean — would love something comfortable to play in.”

“I don’t think a queen will have much time for playing.” Mrs. Beaver sniffed. “She’s such a little thing, Beaver, so small to have such responsibility on her shoulders! Do you ever wonder if... if we did right by them?”

“Of course we did, sweetheart.” He touched his nose to hers. “Aslan himself said so, didn’t he? Cheer up, then — and use your Christmas present already, it’s near July!” 

“Then you can wait for _your_ present until next Christmas.” Mrs. Beaver sniffed.

But she did set paw to pedal that very night.

It took her a while longer to get comfortable with the new machine. She had a deft paw for knitting, crocheting, even for loom-work — making anything warm and comfy for endless winter nights. But summer wear took a different sort of concentration, and the work was much more fiddly. The sewing machine made perfectly even stitches, though, and it was a pleasure to watch the bright threads whirring off the spool, winding under and over, criss-crossing in mimicry of the way Mr. Beaver thatched the roof.

Mrs. Beaver gave the first fruits of her labor to Queen Lucy, of course.

“It’s a beautiful scarf,” said Lucy with a smile as bright as sunshine, “but isn’t it a little too warm out?”

“Nonsense, dearie.” Mrs. Beaver neatly draped the feather-light, cornflower-blue, flower-embroidered scarf around the young queen’s shoulders. “It may be summer — thank the Lion! — but you can still take a chill from the north wind or the night air. As you haven’t any fur of your own, you need something around your neck so you don’t catch cold.”

Lucy touched the scarf. “It _is_ soft.” She giggled. “Will you make Peter wear one too?”

“Dear me, no, I couldn’t possibly _make_ the High King do anything,” Mrs. Beaver exclaimed. Her eyes darted to the bolts of cloth and baskets brimming with golden thread. “But I do have a lovely shade of royal blue that would suit him very nicely,” she added a bit wistfully.

“Then I’ll make him wear it for you,” declared Lucy.

* * *

The true nature of Father Christmas’s gift did not become apparent for some time. Lucy naturally accepted that her lovely summer scarf never frayed, just like her dagger never rusted, dwarf-wrought chain mail never lost a link, centaur-made leather never lost its suppleness, and Marshwiggle tents always leaked.

That first summer was so busy, no one really noticed when buttons failed to fall off after wrestling in the training ring (Peter, Edmund and, secretly, Lucy), or seams failed to rip scrambling over the rocky shore (Lucy and Edmund), or holes failed to appear after visits to small, teething woodland creatures (Lucy and Susan). The first autumn was even busier, with the gathering and hurried harvesting. And the first true winter was one of long journeys to reassure Narnians far and wide that the snows would melt and spring would return again.

The second spring, it occurred to Susan that her brothers’ trousers (and Lucy’s) really should need re-hemming by now. They had all four grown a good deal since Mrs. Beaver had first given them the plain but comfortable clothes for “grubbing about in,” as she put it. But upon inspection, said trousers were of a proper length and in startlingly good shape (albeit very dirty — especially Lucy’s). 

“Curious,” murmured Susan. She resolved to inquire among the staff whether some enterprising dryad had already done the mending, and to thank her if so. But what with one thing and another (overtures to the Black Dwarves, a new forge for the armory, visits to King Lune of Archenland, inspection of the borders, arranging for a more organized harvest next autumn via a more organized planting this spring, settling territorial disputes between the eagles and ospreys, and a million other details), it slipped even Susan’s most excellent memory.

And then an innocuous ride through the northern woods turned into a battle against a hag, and Peter took a poisoned arrow to the chest.

Lucy raced to his side, but he was already sitting up by the time she skidded to a breathless halt. 

“I’m all right!” he gasped. “Not a scratch.”

“What a lucky thing you were wearing chain mail!” exclaimed Lucy.

“I wasn’t.” Peter looked down at his tunic. “Mrs. Beaver made this for me.” The arrow’s point was embedded in a swirl of embroidery. He pulled it loose and fingered the unbroken fabric. “It’s just cotton.”

Bewildered, he looked at Lucy, who shrugged. “Magic?” she offered.

Then a hag shrieked, and the battle was rejoined, and the mystery was set aside for later.

* * *

Much later, as it turned out — and Edmund was the one to solve it. “It’s a gift from Father Christmas, after all,” he said smugly as his gobsmacked siblings stared. “A sword that doesn't yield, a bow that doesn’t miss, a cordial that always heals... and a sewing machine for Mrs. Beaver.” Then Edmund sobered. “And if word gets out, everyone will want an indestructible shirt. The Beavers will be inundated.” 

Susan shot him a Look. “All puns aside, Edmund is right. Mrs. Beaver would work herself to the bone trying to please every Narnian who wears clothing... and soon people would come from Archenland, Galma, Calormen... we mustn’t allow that to happen.”

“I don’t suppose we could ask for more sewing machines for Christmas?” Lucy asked doubtfully,

“That seems the sort of gift that isn’t given twice, Lu.” Peter rubbed his chin (he was just starting to grow a little stubble, and was very self-conscious about it).

“I shall ask Aslan, then,” announced Lucy. It had been some time since the Lion had been seen, but by that time no one doubted that Lucy would ask him all the same. Yet her furrowed brow did not clear. “I have a feeing I know what he’ll say, though.”

“That it’s up to us?” sighed Peter. 

Edmund (who was still too young for stubble) frowned. “You can hardly expect Aslan to make every decision for us,” he reasoned. “He has other worlds, after all... I think. But see here, aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? Has Mrs. Beaver sewn clothing for anyone else besides us four? If not, then we are the only ones who know.”

“Shouldn’t she be told?” asked Susan.

They looked at each other in consternation. 

“I shall still ask Aslan,” repeated Lucy, “to help us see the best answer.”

“Maybe Mrs. Beaver will take up knitting,” muttered Peter, earning a Look from both his sisters.

* * *

In the end, it was not their decision to make. 

Mrs. Beaver did not take up knitting, for she had never stopped her hobby of making woolly, warm winter scarves that could wrap Lucy from head to toe. Nor did her supply of thread run out, nor did the lovely sewing machine break, nor did any delegations arrive from the Lone Islands, Archenland, Galma, Terebinthia or anywhere else demanding unbreakable thread or invincible embroidered shirts.

It was the day after Christmas when Lucy’s brand new shawl snagged on a holly branch, and a loose golden thread unraveled.

She stared at it. It showed no signs of magic, but merely twinkled in the winter light.

“Don’t worry, dear, I can fix it for you.” Mrs. Beaver patted Lucy’s knee. “I think I quite have the hang of that sewing machine now, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes please,” said Lucy. But when no one else was looking, she worried her lip. Somehow, the Christmas magic had stopped working. At least her sister was a good enough archer by now to not depend so fully on her magic bow. The same went for Peter and his sword. But what if Susan’s horn no longer summoned help? What if the healing magic were gone from her cordial?

Lucy shivered.

Deft paws tucked a fluffy knit scarf around her shoulders. “Don’t fret, now. Father Christmas gave me another gift,” Mrs. Beaver confided in a whisper. “I asked him to take the magic off the sewing machine before it causes any trouble.”

“You knew?” exclaimed Lucy.

“When I caught Mr. Beaver using my black thread for fishing line, because even he couldn’t cut it with his teeth, I had a fair idea.” Mrs. Beaver chuckled. “You should have seen the look on his face when I put the pinking shears in his tackle box.”

Lucy giggled.

“Now I imagine you and your brothers and sister might be receiving some special bolts of cloth from Father Christmas this year.” Mrs. Beaver looked meaningfully at Lucy. “Between that and the rest of my thread — which you’re welcome to take with you, except for the black spool (that’s still in Beaver’s tackle box) — well, I should think your seamstresses and cloakmakers up at Cair Paravel should have a _royal_ time. And I don’t doubt they’ll make better use of the materials than I could.” She sniffed. “Giving unbreakable thread to a beaver, what was that man thinking? You’re the ones in need of protection, after all.”

“But I do love your scarves and shawls, Mrs. Beaver!” blurted Lucy. “I can hardly bear going out without one, even in summer.”

Mrs. Beaver smoothed her fur and looked immensely pleased with herself. “Merely a trifle, my dear, but thank you all the same. Will... will you want any more, knowing they’ll just be ordinary now?”

Lucy knelt to hug Mrs. Beaver as tightly as she dared. “I’ll love them because they’re from you,” she sniffled. 

Mrs. Beaver may have sniffled a little herself, but then she slapped her tail very loudly, startling Lucy into a hiccup. “I knew I was forgetting something!” Mrs. Beaver fretted. “I wish I’d have thought of it before Father Christmas took the magic off.”

“What?” asked Lucy, wiping her nose with a wet laugh.

“I should have made you a whole trunkful of nice new handkerchiefs!”


End file.
